Descent
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Gun-running scumbags are of the least concern to the dynamic duo at present. With a relationship that teeters on the edge of oblivion and a barely-existing dialogue between them, Bruce and Jason are threatening to destroy each other. Unless... Bruce's POV NEW CHAPTERS ADDED
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: A fraying relationship, this is not; it has already snapped. Bruce, forever the logistician, formulates an idea to correct the problem, not considering what ramifications await if his ward should discover the truth behind his actions...**

**Here begins Descent.**

**Descent 1**

No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. I know this all too well. Even so, the boy is out of control. He has once again pre-empted my intentions and charged into the situation blind. I have no choice but to make sure he emerges unscathed from this incident. I follow his impatient lead. Less than thirty-three seconds later, all twelve gunrunners are on the ground, either disabled or unconscious. The boy is down on one knee, holding his head. I check the immediate area for danger. There are no other degenerates to contend with. I breathe a sigh of relief before turning my attentions to the headstrong youth at my feet.

"Can you stand?" I ask without any audible emotion. The boy seems to feed on my rage. Any negativity I project makes him even more difficult to handle. He slowly stands up and removes his hand. There is a medium-sized gash on his forehead. It is bleeding. The boy sucks his teeth before posing his own question.

"Is it really bad?"

To tell him he deserves his injury because of reckless behaviour is the right thing to do. I should chide him for further proof of his unsuitability as my partner. I do not. I answer.

"No. Do you have your radio?"

The boy pats his utility belt before producing the transceiver I requested he bring along. He shows it to me and shrugs his shoulders. "Do you want me to alert Gordon or just dispatch the GCPD?" His tone is bitter. It is not because of having to turn over these scumbags to the authorities and allow them the praise we deserve; it is because I appear not to care about his well-being. Perhaps, on many levels, I do not. I do not like the boy's attitude or the path he is walking down. I reply after a brief silence.

"Inform Gordon of the location but get some patrol cars here as soon as possible."

My partner does not talk to me again for over ten minutes. He transmitted both his calls in the first two minutes. We have been mute, standing beside one another, for eight minutes. GCPD squad cars arrived almost four minutes ago. The police officers do not even ask us questions. It would appear the boy communicated all the major facts adequately. By the time Jim gets on scene, there are six patrol cars and all twelve gunrunners are in custody.

"The storage company this building is registered to is already in the process of being investigated. Once we trace the owner, we believe we may finally have the solid lead we're after." Gordon says with optimism resonating throughout his words. He is satisfied we are finally making progress in this investigation. I too believe this successful raid to be a step in the right direction, but say nothing to suggest it. The boy mutters something under his breath.

"Unless you require our presence for anything else, Jim, we'll be leaving."

Jim notices Robin's injury and adopts a grave expression. I do not like the boy garnering sympathy for self-inflicted wounds. Gordon will now believe I am once again acting irresponsibly and placing my partner's life in unnecessary danger. However, like me, he will not voice such sentiments. I respect him greatly for his discretion in these matters.

"No. We can wrap things up from here. Be in touch." He replies after a moment. I incline my head before turning to exit the warehouse. Robin follows by my side. We are still yet to talk to one another even after twenty minutes. We are in the car and halfway out of the city when the boy breaks the tension.

"Do we have any disinfectant left in the car?"

"There should be some in the left nearside compartment."

I hear him stifle a cry as he applies the liquid to his head with a cotton ball. My instinctive reaction is to reach over and ruffle his hair. I do not react instinctively. My hands remain on the wheel and my attention on the road. The last time I attempted to be comforting, the boy swiped my hand away and viciously shouted at me. He finishes with the materials and places them back in the compartment. Deathly quiet is restored.

"How do you feel?" I ask a few minutes later. Robin is not interested in making conversation. His response of glaring at me is enough to show he is still upset at my lack of concern. I do not try again. After another ten minutes, we are at the cave.

The boy gets out the car, walks straight past Alfred and exits the cave entirely via the staircase. He does not look at or acknowledge either of us. The old man looks despondent by the youth's behaviour; I am enraged by his lack of respect. As I move through the cave, Alfred attempts to speak to me. I shed my armour, change into civilian clothes and ignore him too. The old man's lack of surprise at my actions speaks volumes for our current situation. We are in freefall. This has to stop. I walk up the staircase.

The boy is in the shower when I enter his bedroom. I find his uniform strewn on the floor. I proceed to pick it up and fold it neatly on his unmade bed while the sound of water dies. Moments later, he emerges from his bathroom in a bathrobe. He is still dripping wet as he stares at me in what can only be contempt. I sit down on his bed.

"Please sit down."

My request is simple and polite, but I do not believe my companion can ever see it in that light. He thinks me pompous and arrogant, the same qualities I associate with him. However, he does as instructed and sits down beside me. The boy has placed a band-aid across the gash, but its size is woefully inadequate. I do not tell him this.

"You have something to say, Bruce?" He asks with a sneer. I sense the boy may almost be on the cusp of hating me entirely. What I do next is completely out of character and against all my feelings for this unruly child. I embrace him without saying a word. As I anticipated he stiffens, a physical sign of his shock at the gesture.

"I'm sorry for how I have treated you. I wish you to know that it was never my intention to hurt you like I have. And I don't want your forgiveness. All I want you to know is that, no matter what issues we may have with one another, I love you, Jason. And I always will." This tactic is my last. If an admittance of fault and a display of intimate affection will not rally the boy back to my side, all is lost. For long, slow minutes, I believe I have failed in this venture. Jason remains stiff and inflexible in my arms, saying nothing. Eventually, just as I am contemplating releasing him, the boy's body softens. His head sinks into my chest and his arms wrap around my back. I hear Jason sigh.

"Thank you."

We stay pinned to one another for the next four minutes in reflective silence. I have achieved what I believed was impossible; I have taken a step towards repairing our frayed and violent relationship. The youth in my arms thinks he has found my acceptance as Dick's replacement. His naïve impression of our relationship as being more father-son than business-like is regrettable but necessary to restore unity. I stroke his damp hair and hear him sigh again. Poor boy. This is not his home. It never will be.

I wake up around eight in the morning and head downstairs. I find Alfred preparing eggs Benedict in the kitchen. The boy is at the breakfast bar, eating cereal. His presence is totally unexpected. For the past six months, Jason has taken to serial truancy and sleeping until midday. He looks less than pleased to be awake, but has made the effort to be sociable.

"Morning Alfred."

"Good morning, Master Bruce. Breakfast will be served in three minutes."

"Morning Jason."

"'Sup."

It is the most positive response I have garnered from the boy in almost a year. It would seem my actions from last night are still fixed in his mind…for now. I sit down at the table and look around for today's paper.

"Here." Jason says whilst pushing the newspaper square into my chest on his way to sitting down opposite me. I am pleased the boy is acting with restraint, but am wary of my ploy backfiring in some way. Even now, in this placid state, Jason is still only a wrong word away from being volatile.

"How is your head today?" I ask unfolding the paper.

"Hurts. Its like some guy cracked me in the head with a baseball bat." I am truly surprised now. The boy has attempted to joke with me. He and I both know his injury is due to a bat-wielding thug from last night, but he has tried to be humorous…like he used to be. When I smile to reward his effort, he smiles too. "I know it sucked, but I couldn't think of anything else." I have missed his gentler side. Now, as he displays his best qualities, it is hard for me to remember when he last let me this close. Perhaps it is as long as a year-and-a-half ago.

"You're up early. Is there any particular reason?" I inquire as Alfred places my breakfast on the table in front of me.

"I wanted…" The boy pauses when the old man presents him with a plate as well. He had not been expecting such treatment. He looks at Alfred in confusion. The old man nods to indicate he is deserving of this service and offers the youth the warmest smile he has received in months. "Thanks Al." Jason says picking up his cutlery. Alfred inclines his head and exits the room. "Like I said, I wanted to go down the drugstore and pick up some patches."

"Patches?"

"Um, nicotine patches. You know, the kind that help you quit smoking?"

"You're going to quit smoking?"

"I'll give it a shot. I can't make any promises, okay?"

"That's okay. Anything else on your agenda?"

"I thought about gyming it for a while too. Why? Do you want my help with something?"

Do I want his help with something? Despite all my lectures and tuition, I find the boy's deductive reasoning skills obtuse. He lacks the sharp edge necessary for high-level investigation and his blunt attitude to everything does not leave room for lateral-thinking. In past cases, his use as only extended as far as extra-muscle or back-up. He has not displayed an interest in giving me anything else. When he asks whether I want his help, I consider telling him to move furniture or assist Alfred with household chores. I do not insult him though by articulating this thought. I am trying to bring him back into the fold. For that to happen, he needs to feel like he is involved, like I require his help.

"Yes. I was hoping to get your input on this gunrunning case. Maybe between us we can answer some questions."

Jason's reaction to this is to smile again. I have no doubt he feels like we are once again growing closer. It is an illusion, but I must maintain the pretence. I must confess his smile is the same as Dick's; something truly wonderful to see.

"Yeah, I'd like that." He replies with the kind of shy enthusiasm I wanted him to project. Perhaps it is still possible to get the boy back under my control. I will run with this strategy of feeding him false emotion as long as I am able. The end will justify the means and, despite the methods implemented being cruel, they are proving to nevertheless be highly effective. I will have this boy under my control once more. That fact is now inevitable.

We are in the cave later that afternoon. In the intervening hours, Jason has done precisely what he said he would do. He has obtained the nicotine patches from the drugstore and conducted a strength and power session in the gymnasium. For the first time in months, his time has been productive. I am pleased with his new-found commitment. It is very encouraging. My own time has also been conducive to later success. I have short-listed a select group of arms dealers who possess both the means and skill to orchestrate the kind of deals currently plaguing the city. Before the boy turned up to offer his input, I had already done most of the legwork required to close this investigation. Hopefully now it is simply a case of joining the dots, something Jason excels at.

"It's none of these guys, Bruce." The boy has just glanced over our suspect list and dismissed my findings. I am incredulous of his statement.

"How is that feasible? These individuals are the only ones capable of executing the deals we are seeing on the streets."

"'Cause these guys have huge egos; if they were doing these kind of sales, they'd let the underworld know it was them. The people doing the deals aren't saying a damn word; they're being discreet." Part of Jason's argument is reasonable. Yes, these people I have ear-marked are egocentric and arrogant in their market. They do like to brag of their triumphs, but who else is there to look at?

"Who do you believe we should be squeezing?" Jason grins at me. He actually has a lead for me to follow. There is no other explanation for his glee. I wait for his reply.

"Danny Pedro."

"He's just a straw boss for Frank Halsee."

"No, Frank Halsee is his fall guy."

"Granting that's true, their outfit doesn't deal in illegal arms trading, only prostitution and racketeering."

"Nah, those are a front, a side-business to cover the big deals going on in the back."

"Where's your evidence for these claims?"

"Look at the papers, Bruce."

What Jason is claiming, that Frank Halsee, one of North Gotham's most prolific gangland figureheads is nothing but a patsy, appears ludicrous…at first. Digging up archives from the Gotham Times reveals some interesting facts. Halsee only appeared in Gotham six years ago, prior to his meteoric rise to power, his only prison time was for petty theft and fraud. Danny Pedro has been in the city for almost fifteen years, having come from Mexico where he was arrested, but never convicted for a slew of prostitution and racketeering charges. Because these charges were filed in Mexico, they are not present on the GCPD database. Halsee's unsuitable background and Pedro's hidden talents, make Jason's theory that Pedro is the real boss increasingly credible. Where this scumbag fits into gunrunning is less clear.

A report on a seizure of illegal firearms in Gotham Docks some five years ago clears matters somewhat. The weapons cache was discovered in shipping crates belonging to a transport company, Warbeck Industries. It is a dummy corporation with its registered CEO as a man named Alonso Marquez. Marquez is one of Pedro's many aliases, again from crimes committed outside of the United States. Because GCPD could not trace Marquez, they convicted another petty thief, Hector Rango, a distant cousin of Danny Pedro, of the crime. Faced with this plethora of fresh intelligence, I recall the name of the storage company being none other than Warbeck Storage Ltd. It is not unreasonable to assume that this business will also be revealed as a dummy corporation. Jason's theory holds significant water. His input…has proved invaluable.

"How did you discover this?" I ask him once Pedro's movements place him near the storage facility last night. The boy shrugs his shoulders.

"I've been looking into it. You taught me to be a detective. I've been detecting. Pretty good, right?"

"Outstanding is a more apt word to describe your efforts." I pat him on the shoulder without any hesitancy, "Nice work, partner."

Instead of reacting violently to my unauthorised contact, the boy simply nods. "Thanks, Boss, do what I can."

My appraisal of the youth's abilities and motivations has been both too harsh and narrow. He has skills and knows how to use them effectively. We may yet find our feet as a team. Despite my renewed hope in our partnership and in spite of Jason's invaluable input into this investigation, my instincts tell me something is amiss. Even if he had researched all this information vigorously and with considerable scrutiny, I would still not expect him to possess such intimate knowledge. What are his sources if not the materials we have just utilized? I keep my doubts to myself…for the moment.

"Pedro's recently been incarcerated for six months on illegal possession of several firearms. If he is the real boss in this operation, the prison term presents the perfect cover to hide behind." I say as we begin to trawl through databases and archived files in the GCPD central computer.

"Yeah, but according to Gordon's Arson taskforce, Frank Halsee's home was the target of a rival outfit less than a week ago. Halsee himself has also disappeared from public view." The boy responds. I consider.

"In such an event, who is in control of Halsee's associates?"

"Says here in the GCPD Major Crimes Unit that a guy named Vicenza Daytona is the 3 I/C for Halsee and Pedro in the event of their absence."

We concentrate our efforts on pulling Daytona's records. His real name is Mario Luciano, a mid-level enforcer from the Sicilian Mafia. Back home he was charged with almost every offence possible, ranging from petty theft to rape to murder, but was almost always let free. The few instances he was indicted were for minor sanctions relating to fraud and perjury. He came to the United States in 1999 under his current moniker, Vicenza Daytona, to monitor Mafia interests. His sudden decision to align himself with Halsee and his outfit in 2002 was met with several assassination attempts by his former bosses. He was hospitalized twice for gunshot wounds in a three-month timeframe in early 2003 and has not suffered a further attempt since. His illicit activities in Gotham have been confined to the one area we are investigating, arms trafficking. Although it outwardly seems Halsee is trying to distance himself from Daytona, his outfits revenue stream is not sourced exclusively from prostitution and racketeering ventures. A sizeable 23% of their illegal profits are coming from an unknown source. Taking into account the amount of firearms being transported through the city and their street value, it is logical to suggest this financial black spot is through gunrunning.

"You think Daytona's taking his orders from Pedro?"

"It seems likely. In the seven weeks since Pedro was sent to Blackgate, Daytona has visited him nine times. Halsee has not visited once."

"My intel's good then, huh?"

"It is proving irrefutable at present, yes."

The boy is still over-confident to the point of liability in a street scenario. He must learn some humility or face a potentially fatal lesson in the field should this behaviour continue. I do not voice such harshly-worded sentiments. For now we are working well as a team. After a short while, I secure a viable address for Daytona and commit it to memory. Jason is aware of this and is already eager to get underway. Fortunately for him and perhaps myself, it is almost dark over the city. We prepare for our rendezvous a short while later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This is long overdue and even then, just a taster for the next chapter which will heavily feature Alfred and Jason and be told from the faithful butler's POV. This chapter reveals that Bruce is not the only cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch playing games with people's emotions. We're looking at a three chapter run after this as a minimum. Hopefully it shouldn't be long between updates this time.**

**Enjoy.**

**Descent 2**

Everything has gone wrong and my world has crumbled. Perhaps this is somewhat of an exaggeration, but after arriving at Daytona's address and tracing documents to a warehouse in Gotham Docks, the situation did not improve. Encountering stern resistance was not the issue, nor was their superior numbers once combat became the only option. It was my realisation that I had been mistaken about the boy that ended the evening on a sour note. I had assumed he had gathered his intelligence from reputable sources. I was mistaken. I presumed the boy did not realise the game I was playing. I was again in error. Jason is not stupid. My theories and the shock of forming them so clearly in my mind caused my fall from height. I had been blind to think Jason could be controlled without a leash, that a change in attitude or temperament could be genuine if not forced. When I blacked out, I was unsure of whether the boy in his current state of mind would save me at all.

"_Bruce?"_

My vision slowly bleeds back in. I see the boy looming over me.

"Bruce? You with me, big guy?" He is not in uniform anymore, despite that being the last image I have of him before my fall. I gather we are in my bedroom, judging by the décor and that I am lying in bed. Jason is wearing only a pair of loose, knee-length shorts as he stands over me, allowing an impromptu inspection of a plethora of bruises and lacerations streaking his torso and face. Thankfully, there does not appear to be any serious injuries or swelling present. The boy thwarts my attempts to sit up, forcing me back down to the mattress with unwelcome ease. "Al says no getting up until your concussion dies down. He also says it's a wonder you didn't fracture your skull falling thirty feet." Jason informs me with a lopsided grin that says he finds all this amusing. I do not.

"How did we extract from the area?" I inquire reaching up and running my fingers over the bandages around my head. Alfred is being much too careful. Jason sits down on the edge of the bed and shrugs.

"I carried you out. I had to stave off the majority of Daytona's bat-hungry goons, but we managed to get back to the cave easily enough."

"Did we secure evidence of Pedro's involvement in Halsee's operations?"

"Nothing that'll hold up in court. Not that it matters when Pedro's already behind bars anyway." The boy offers with a smile. I sense he is trying to cheer me up. It is not working well.

"He will be released in less than two months if we do not find proof of his illicit activities soon. How long has Alfred prescribed me bed rest?"

"If he had his way…two to three years. Since he doesn't, a week at the absolute least."

"That is unacceptable." I say before trying to force my way out of bed. Jason responds to this by surreptitiously shifting his weight to stop me from exiting his side of the bed. When I manoeuvre to get out on the other side, the boy mounts my torso to immobilise me completely. He shakes his head.

"Stop being a complete retard and engage your brain. There are no lifts in this house and the only way down to the cave is via a very long and narrow set of steps in near darkness: you can't even coordinate an escape from a seventeen-year-old boy already dosed up on pain meds. You're in no condition to stop arms trafficking." He tells me bluntly, but without any anger. He leans forward until his chest makes contact with mine before folding his arms and propping his chin on top of them. "I know you lied to me the other night." Jason says with a smirk. I frown.

"What do you mean?"

"About you loving me. I know you think I'm a broken toy that's too fucked-up to fix. What I didn't know is how dumb you think I am. Think I can't see through your bullshit after all these years, big guy? You're not the only guy who can manipulate people like puppets. How do you think I knew about Pedro being the real Don Corleone?"

I am addled by my concussion and Alfred's medication, but I can also see the boy is heavily under the influence of his own prescription to be saying such things with abandon. Jason is daring me to call him on my suspicions that he is leveraging and using members of Pedro's organisation to gain information on their leader and damning the human cost it brings to his unwitting informants. It is a theory I fit upon the scenario last night and was the cause of my fall. Realising your partner is responsible for unnecessary suffering and perhaps even death just so he can obtain intelligence is monstrous. My foot giving way under an unstable section of the building roof was the least of my concerns in that moment. Jason has just confirmed the deterioration of our partnership is almost complete.

"You are destroying lives, Jason." I reply only for the boy to roll his eyes derisively.

"Forgive me if I don't weep for the poor scum who gets his fingers cut off for poor security drills or the chump who loses an eye because he took the wrong guy's Benjamin Franklin…"

"You're bribing them for information as well?" I ask now realising the extent of our freefall. Jason shakes his head.

"No, I promise them cash, lots of it, but I never give them a cent. That's stupidity in action, big man." The boy says laughing briefly, "Criminals here are so retarded they'd beat their mothers for the promise of a hundred bucks."

"Jason, that is not our way…"

"Wrong. That's not your way. If we did things your way, Halsee would be your guy and Pedro would slip under the radar, free to run the show from the safety of anonymity while you chase what's essentially his scarecrow round Gotham like a rat in a maze. My way has just saved us days of work, maybe even weeks, but you just want to shoot me down as a loose cannon because I used my common sense." The boy tells me in such a way that I am convinced Jason cannot see the problems of straying from the right side of the path. He has not begun to deviate, but rather completely follow his own path into the dark with this display.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I ask as his bodyweight begins to constrict my chest. He frowns at me as if the answer is obvious.

"Because you figured out how I got my info last night. That's the only reason you'd ever fall off a building like an amateur cliff diver. There's no point lying to you if you've got the truth circling your head."

"And how are you expecting me to react to this admission?"

"Really badly as a matter of fact. I take it I'm fired?" He says sitting up and straddling my chest with a sigh. If it were possible to fire him, I would have done it a long time ago. He knows I can't dismiss him either. The boy is aware his volatility and training makes him too dangerous for release back to the streets he came from. He knows my hands are tied on the matter and that, given my current condition, I need him more than he needs me.

"If I asked you to stop your illicit intelligence-gathering activities, would you?" I say trying to suppress the rising anger I feel when I see a smirk materialise on his face.

"No orders? No screaming?" He asks, obviously relishing his high bargaining position at present and my personal pride taking a knock. I maintain an even tone.

"That is the general idea."

"Sure I'd stop. If you ask nicely, I'll quit cold right here and now." He tells me, leaning in and daring me to strike him across the face. He wants me to get ugly with him, wants me to snap. The boy is spaced indeed to tease me like this. I swallow my pride and ask him as politely as possible.

"Jason, please do not engage in such shady practices again, not without my explicit permission to do so. Is that understood?"

"Okay, consider my side-line over, big man. Anything else?"

"Before I ask, I need to be able to trust you."

"Says the guy who manipulates the street hustler's emotions like a puppeteer to make him dance?" Jason counters before miming the hands of a puppeteer working the puppets' strings. He narrows his eyes but maintains a smug smile. I try to reach him.

"Jason, I never met to hurt…"

"Save the spiel for someone else, preacher man. Be happy that Al's drugs make me mellow enough not to spit in your face right now. Tell me what you need." He says letting his arms fall by his sides and wincing from what looks like a strained shoulder or pulled back muscle. He seems engaged enough so I make my request as concise as possible.

"I know where their next shipment will dock and when. I need you to stop it from making if off that pier."

"When?"

"Two days from now, Pier 33. The shipment will arrive shortly before one A.M. It is Pedro's most regular shipment and without doubt the nuclei of all other trafficking operations. I need it to be permanently disrupted. Understand?" Jason does not give an answer. The boy's proximity is still within touching distance of my face. I can smell his breath and feel it hitting my face as he considers what I ask of him.

"I get it. For the record, I loved you once too. And, just so there's no confusion, when I turn eighteen, I'm gone. There won't be a goodbye note or any kind of warning. One day you'll just find me gone. I can be your bad dream, Bruce, the one you can pretend isn't real and never happened." Jason tells me in a mocking tone that children often taunt each with in the schoolyard. His blue eyes flash briefly to my still hands. "Still not want to lay hands on me, big guy? My old man would've beaten me half-to-death if I'd played him like this. Not got the stones?"

"No, I haven't. You can go now." The only saving grace of this conversation is that we are communicating. At least we know where we stand with one another. Jason leans back and considers.

"I'll be back for some more details when you're less of a bitch. Later." The boy says before rolling off me and exiting the room without looking back. Moments later, Alfred enters the room. We exchange disconcerted glances. Evidently the old man has not been too far away. Now free of Jason's suffocating presence, I sit up, only for Alfred to push me back to the mattress.

"What do you wish me to do, Sir?" He asks me.

"Whatever it takes for me to recuperate in forty-eight hours. Failing that, I need you to keep a close eye on the boy during his missions. Have you been shadowing him?"

"Yes. Despite his deceptions, the boy did fend off three dozen unscrupulous individuals last night to extract you from the docks. The amount of force that lad can take is extraordinary." Alfred informs me whilst adjusting my bedsheets and checking my bandages.

"What level of medication is he on?"

"Just enough to keep him relaxed without making him dazed." He replies whilst unveiling several different pills from his pocket.

"I need to know exactly how upset he is from the events of the past few days. If he's not in the right frame of mind, this operation will end with tragedy. Think you still have enough pull to talk with him, old friend?" I ask as he helps me swallow down the medicinal cocktail with a tumbler of water. The old man sighs lethargically. I sympathise.

"I will attempt the incredible, Sir. Your next round of medication will be in two hours. Please try to rest until then."

Alfred departs and I close my eyes, already knowing sleep is impossible at this stage. Despite my concussion, I can see Jason has become dangerous. How dangerous depends entirely on what the old man is able to uncover while I am convalescing. I hope for both our sakes, there is still a way to fix this.

**Not great, but at least the ball's rolling.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Alfred is dealing with his own emotions as well as Jason's. Bruce is not the only one to feel responsible for the boy's bad actions. At the end of his rope, the old man finds their wayward son not quite as far gone as he feared. Enjoy.**

**Descent 3**

**Shackles **

When the master of the household tells me to gauge his charge for signs of mental instability, I do not question the order or manner in which it is given. I am a servant, first and foremost, catering to every want and need of those I serve. However, the irony of such a request from a master who himself has too many psychological issues to name in one lifetime is not lost on me. I too bear mental scars from my time in the servitude of the Wayne family. After mending so many broken bones and shattered hearts, it cannot be avoided. With Jason, I fear he has been hurt and broken too many times to fix for any longer than a few weeks before an inevitable implosion. Regardless, I must endeavour to carry out my master's orders to the best of my ability. So I seek out our wayward ragamuffin and find him sat amongst the roses.

He is bruised and cut and very tired by recent events. He sits with his back propped against a low wall and his legs stretched out before him. With nothing but a pair of shorts to hide his blushes, the lad resembles a worn and forlorn doll mistreated by a zealous child as he sits staring up at the sky. I cannot help but feel this particular analogy is truer than I would dare admit, given Master Bruce's strained relationship with the boy. I note he has an unlit cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth and seems to be chewing on it as I announce my presence with a clearing of the throat.

"I haven't caved, Al. I'm just chewing it. Nicotine patches make me want one more than if I just smoke the stupid things in the first place." The boy informs me without taking his eyes off the clouds above. The young man seems oblivious to the chaos he has just caused upstairs. I am however glad he is now acknowledging my presence and engaging me in conversation. For months before now, he has ignored me entirely, despite my efforts to mend burnt bridges. I sit down beside him.

"I did not believe you would surrender so tamely, Master Jason. How are your injuries faring?"

"I've had worse. He fill you in on the plan for the arms bust?" The boy says before proceeding to suck on his cancer stick like a lollypop. He knows I deplore such slovenly practices and I wonder if he is doing it deliberately.

"Master Bruce was kind enough to furnish me with the vague particulars of the operation, yes. Are you happy with what he requires?"

"Well, busting heads is probably my speciality so I'm fairly happy with the sketch." He turns to me, "I just fuck everything up, right?"

"I suppose it could be interpreted as that, yes." I respond without any kind of awkward pause, despite wondering if the lad is hinting at a wider picture with his statement. Jason nods, but looks so unhappy that I cannot help but briefly comb through his hair in a gesture of affection. My gesture is not met well. The boy narrows his eyes at me before getting to his feet and walking off without another word. There was a time when such displays were common and well-received between us. That is evidently no longer the case and I am left to rue my mistake alone.

I find him lounging on the sofa some two hours later, watching the idiot lantern and whatever passes for entertainment these days. He has prepared a poorly-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich and is lazily tearing it into pieces whilst occasionally dropping some of it into his mouth. He has yet to dress and seems even more apathetic than in the garden. Since I have completed my cleaning duties for the morning and attended to Master Bruce, I positioned myself at the side of the sofa and clear my throat.

"May I join you, young man?"

"I'm not getting up if you do." The boy informs me without bothering to glance in my direction. His current reclined position means he occupies all of the available space. I am unperturbed.

"I don't mind. Indulge me?"

"It's all crap, Al, you know that right? Just fat women and soaps." Jason says whilst raising his legs just high enough for me to squeeze into the gap created. I gratefully sit down and the lad brings his feet to rest in my lap.

"You seem not to mind."

"I'm just as white trash as they are, Al. You can't look down on your own kind, right? I'm many things, but I'm still not a hypocrite." The lad offers with a sigh. "And I can be trusted to do the job, so go back to Bruce and tell him I'm fine upstairs. You can stop trying to buddy up to me now." He adds with a perceptiveness I am all too aware of. However I am no longer concerned with the master's demands of subterfuge, but of the boy's obvious detachment from everything around him. It is not just upsetting for him, but me as well.

"Have I ever lied concerning the way I feel about you, Jason?" I ask to make his eyes finally leave the screen and fall on me. He frowns in uncertainty.

"I don't know. Probably."

"Do I not tell you when I find your conduct distasteful or befitting that of a gentleman? Do I not praise and scold you in equal measure, as any normal parent should?"

"You've never hit me, Al." The boy sneers in reference to my use of the word scold. "You're too much of a man to hit a kid like me. It's beneath you." He adds with slight traces of respect for my restraint as if it is not common. He has endured a terrible upbringing in this city…in this house. I cannot help but feel I am to blame for his current attitude. I admit the truth.

"I have wanted to, in recent times more than most. And I'm sorry to admit that I entertained such unsavoury fantasies. I hope you can forgive my weakness." I tell him sincerely, especially as I regard the handiwork of men who show no such morals covering his entire body. The boy shrugs his shoulders.

"I never guessed from the way you acted, Al. At least you only thought it. The big guy has socked me once or twice when I got carried away with things." He says as if trying to cheer me up, despite admitting Master Bruce is not always a model of restraint himself. I shake my head.

"I still feel awful for wanting to hurt a boy like you."

"Because I'm a street kid and former rent boy?" He smirks. I am not in a playful mood this morning. As I give my response, I become more and more emotional until I fear tears will surely fall if I stay any longer. All the pain and anguish of the last few months is beginning to surface.

"Because you have tried so hard to be everything he wants you to be. And because I feel closer to you than I do with him and Master Dick. You're my friend and I am ashamed I did nothing to defend you from his high standards and impossible expectations. I should've tried so much harder. I can never forgive myself. I…" I say before motioning for him to move his feet so I can leave. I cannot finish my sentence. I feel brittle inside as he regards me in stunned silence and need a few moments to compose myself before resuming duties. When he moves his feet, I stand up quickly. "I am sorry to have interrupted your programme. Please excuse me, Sir." I tell him, straightening the hem of my tailcoat before preparing to walk off towards the foyer. He grabs my wrist as I take a single step away from him.

"Alfred…" He says, using my full name for perhaps the first time in four or five years, "what he's done to me is not your fault. What I've become in this house, isn't your fault either." He tells me softly whilst getting to his feet. I cannot speak without fear of sobbing so I say nothing as the lad smiles at me in a way I have not seen in some while. He grips my shoulders and laughs. "You are, without any shadow of a doubt, the best man I have ever met in my entire life. You're the only reason I'm not dead or back on the street. Because with just him, suicide or a hardcore drug habit would be the only escapes. I've gone off the rails but it's because of him and me, not you and me or him and you. It's never you, Al. I'm sorry about stiffing you earlier; I thought you were trying to play me for him. Don't worry. Nothing you can do can make me hate you. Ever. I love you, you stupid old man." He hugs me without hesitation or false bravado and I numbly let him do so. "Hug me back, Al, or I'm going to think I've completely got it wrong here." He prompts me after a minute. I embrace him back, mindful of his injuries. I thought the boy had cut all emotional attachments. I was mistaken and gladly so.

I am a servant, but I am also a human being, something Master Bruce forgets. Jason understands this better than most, given he has also been treated in the same clinical manner. I squeeze my wayward youth tighter.

"I will inform everything is okay for the operation and that you are of sound mind." I say, encouraged enough by the lad's affection to risk combing through his hair again. This time there are no sour looks or distasteful reactions to be found.

"I know I've fucked it all up, Al. For him, for you, for everybody who depends on us out there, in the zoo. But I also know I can fix it, if he just lets me try. If I'm allowed to breathe, I will get the evidence we need and put the scumbags out of business. I promise you I can be good. I can." Jason tells me with sincerity, but no signs of cracking under the emotional strain of what he is saying. The lad is not moved or forced to tears often. Even to find the precipice of such a display is near impossible. The master has succeeded in carving a boy out of stone. It is a monstrous feat when the boy is a mere seventeen years old and far from maturity in anything except the weight of his hits. He is human and he needs someone to support him. Just like me. So far I have supported the master of this house to his exclusion and it has not paid dividends in any sense. Master Bruce has not supported me in return, something I expected of course, but am I still hurt by. With my oldest child currently indisposed, I will support Jason wholeheartedly. Because, regardless of the rift between us, however great or slight it may be, he will support me back.

"While Master Bruce is recovering from his injuries, it will just be you and me running the show on the operation. I will of course take his input and suggestions, but we will be on our own when the time comes. You'll be able to breathe so much oxygen you're liable to go light-headed." I tell him to earn a brief snigger for my efforts at a joke. He pushes away from me and grins.

"If you were…I'm going to say forty years younger, a chick and didn't have an antisocial son with attachment issues, I'd probably marry you Al, right on the spot and no questions asked. Since you met none of those essential criteria for Jason Todd's approval, you'll have to do with a chaste kiss instead." The lad declares before pecking me on the cheek, a gesture no other teenage boy I have ever known has thanked me with. His masculinity is absolute, despite his traumas on Gotham's streets. It only serves to remind me why I still love this boy when enough foul language and teenage angst has been flung in my direction to drown me. I incline my head.

"I suppose honesty is an admirable trait. Still, I had wished for twenty-five years younger instead of forty. Perhaps even thirty would have been nice."

"Forty is more than generous, Al. This is me we're talking about, not Golden boy."

"Alas, I suppose Master Dick is prone to outrageous lies. No matter. Shall we do some surveillance work on your dock for the time being?"

"Does it include vodka shots?"

"I could go as far as a one rum and coke and only if we are still working after ten in the evening. Fair deal?"

"Better than nothing. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: It's time for Jason's POV to dominate proceedings for the time being. This instalment focuses on the twenty-four hour period covering Jason and Alfred preparing for the docks operation and Jason arriving at the docks itself. Next chapter will be all about kicking ass. Enjoy more Alfred and Jason.**

**Descent 4**

I wake up to someone stroking my hair like I'm five. With Bruce still locked down in his own bed and Wayne Manor not being a hotspot for perverts and sex offenders, I can only assume it's Al continuing where he left off yesterday. The man is being really nice to me, now I've stopped freezing him out of what's running through my head. Normally I'd loathe someone being all touchy-feely with me like this, since I hate the smell of desperation, but because it's Al and the guy is anything but pathetic, I let him carry on for another twenty seconds. He's got technique down cold for soothing hot-heads like me.

"I think I've indulged myself enough, Master Jason. Thank you for the privilege." The man says respectfully.

"Well, before I do a reverse face-plant to get out of this pillow, is anything on display that probably shouldn't be for polite conversation?" I ask, knowing as a hardcore sleeping nudist, I lack any kind of shame or decorum when it comes to my assets. I hear him sigh.

"Seeing as your bedsheets currently only cover your left foot, I regret to say everything is available for public viewing. Would you like me to do the honours of sparing your blushes?"

"Am I not cute enough to get away with it anymore?" I ask with my face still mashed deep into the pillow. His response of wrangling the duvet from my foot and throwing it over me so that it emphatically covers everything below my shoulders tells me I'm too old for this to be anything approaching cute.

"Car crash victims would be cuter than you at this stage of your development, young man." That's harsh for first thing in the morning, but it's a good sign he's comfortable with me again. I smirk whilst finally dislodging my head from the mattress to look at him over my shoulder. No neckwear and a pair of latex gloves tells me I'm in for a prodding under the guise of a 'physical exam'. I open my mouth to protest what he's about to do, but get cut off before I can finish drawing breath. "You have not been properly examined since last month. If you're going to do this operation successfully, I need to check you're not carrying any injuries likely to compromise that outcome."

"Can I at least put some underwear on before you start playing doctor, Al? Unless you're after a cheap…"

"No, I am not after a 'cheap thrill', Master Jason, although I must admit to having seen it many times before." He interrupts whilst crossing to my dresser and retrieving a pair of boxers for me. He throws them in my face before I can reply with more smutty innuendo. I slip them on under the covers and then roll out of bed for him to direct me.

"How's Bruce?" I ask as the old man motions for me to sit in a chair he's strategically placed in the middle of the room. I sit and he lifts up my arm.

"He is recovering well. However, he will still not be in a fit enough state to oversee the operation this evening." Al says whilst manipulating my joints and asking me to say when I feel pain or discomfort. He flexes my fingers. Ow. He flexes my wrist. Ow. He flexes my elbow. Ow, Ow, Ow. He rotates my shoulder. Holy shit it burns.

"Yeah, it's good, Al." I tell him. He nods knowingly.

"I'll make sure you have enough anti-inflammatories to complete the mission."

"Thanks. My other arm's a lot better."

"We shall see."

My left arm is in better shape than my right, since it wasn't balancing a two hundred-and-ten pound superhero on it for the best part of a mile two nights ago. My back's stiff but both it and my knees are still strong. My neck's tender from where some gorilla tried to strangle me, but otherwise alright. Amazingly, despite head-butting a minimum of twenty people in escaping the mob, my skull isn't even slightly bruised. I might have pulled something near my groin and got a collage of cuts and bruises, but the damage is pretty superficial. And now I've had copious amounts of pain-killers and a decent sleep, I'm good to go all over again. Regardless, I get a grave frown from Al once everything's been checked out.

"You have new scar tissue on your left shoulder. And your right knee. And I'm almost certain this knife wound on your abdomen is only a few weeks old. Did you stitch it yourself?" The old man asks brushing his fingertips against my amateur patch job. I shrug.

"It was a slash, Al, not a stab wound. The guy barely got beneath my skin. It wasn't anything bad. It just hurt like hell."

"You should've let me treat it. The scar tissue is the product of a partially torn rotator cuff on your shoulder and a ballistic injury sustained to your patella. Again, you should've consulted me. I could have limited the damage to a much greater extent." Al tells me with more concern for my physical well-being in a minute than Bruce has shown me in about nine months. Because he's got a heart of gold, I give him a frank answer.

"I know I'm stupid, alright? But I just wanted to be alone. I wanted time to get my shit together and I couldn't do it with you around. Bruce either. Sometimes, it still gets to be too much for me and I need to vent. To do that, I can't be around people or I vent on them. And Bruce will tell you that's not pretty." The old man offers up a sad smile.

"I doubt I'll ever fully understand your pain, Master Jason, but I admire your attempts to conquer it. However, never be under the delusion you cannot seek help. I am always here for you."

"I'm not kissing you again, Al. So you can stop laying the sentiment on too thick. I'll probably puke if you go any further." I say with a grin whilst getting to my feet. The old man smiles too.

"Then forgive me for upsetting your delicate constitution when I say I have missed our inane conversations this past year. Verbally sparring with you is one of my life's greatest joys." He tells me with an openness I know is so rare in people that I've never seen it in another person other than Al. I roll my eyes and sigh.

"Fine, Al. You can hug me if you want." I say sticking my arms out to the sides and motioning him forward. I'm not surprised when he accepts my invitation and embraces me like I did to him yesterday.

"More indulgence? I am surprised." The old man remarks as we push away from each other in the aftermath.

"Well, it's either this or I punch you in the arm like normal guys do."

"Well then I must thank you for not channelling your inner caveman this morning. Shall we go for breakfast?"

The day goes quicker than I expected. Al makes me a protein and carb-heavy breakfast of six scrambled egg whites, four ounces of thin-sliced sirloin steak and a big-ass sweet potato. This is only because I spent most of the last week living off pop tarts and turkey twizzlers and the old man hates junk food crossing the threshold of anybody's mouth. After that, I take a cold shower to numb my body while the pain killers and anti-inflammatories kick in and then get fully dressed for the first time in six weeks. I sneak one smoke while Al is washing up and then another before he nags me to see Bruce about tonight's big operation as one in the afternoon closes in. I reluctantly drift up to his room and knock once.

"Come in."

I walk in and find the big man not in bed, not in his pyjamas and not sporting any attractive headwear. Instead of recovering in comfort as any normal guy with a head injury would, Bruce is dressed in a black sweatshirt, slate slacks and black shoes and hunched over the antique writing desk in the corner, writing a lot of notes. He's even gone to the trouble of shaving and styling his hair for this meeting, evading Al completely while going to and from the bathroom down the hall to accomplish this. He regards me in silence for a while before speaking.

"You're dressed."

"So are you, despite being a patient." I say leaning against the doorway and folding my arms. He turns to face me in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and steeping his hands together.

"You didn't return to see me yesterday after the morning's…events."

"No, I didn't."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I was pissed at you. I'm always pissed at you. You make me low. You make it out like I'm worse than the scum we go after, like I'm dirt." I tell him with a truckload of bitterness. He hits back with something just as cutting, but makes it worse by delivering it in the coolest tone of voice imaginable.

"You make the comparison too easy sometimes. In certain situations, your actions are beyond reckless." I bite my tongue to stop from tearing into him. If all people were represented as assholes, this guy would look like a crater on the moon, he's that big of a hole. I force a smile and wander closer.

"Well you'll be glad to know that drugged or not, I meant what I said yesterday. As soon as I hit the stratospheric heights of being eighteen years young, I'm a ghost in this place. Just run your mouth on what you need me to do tonight and I'll get right on it with Al." I see his eyes flicker at the mention of Al's name before he tries to boss proceedings again.

"I will also be monitoring…"

"No, you won't. Al says no cave duty for you until Monday at minimum. You cross him on it and you'll get the same treatment from him as you're getting from me right now. The guy's not your slave or your bitch and neither am I. You got it?" I tell him whilst jabbing a finger in his direction. He rises to his feet in a very deliberate and relaxed manner, before squaring up to me with a face like stone. I dare him to hit me, I fucking dare him to get physical.

"You must feel very powerful to address me like this." He says after a long silence. I wait for a follow-up. The big man nods. "That's good. I need you to be for tonight's operation. Evidence of Pedro's status as the real figurehead of the arms trafficking will be found by close interrogation of the dock foreman, Michael Harrison. To get to him will require a significant amount of surveillance and stealth. On my desk are schematics of the pier, likely numbers of opposition, weaponry and tactics used as well as a physical description of Harrison and his weaknesses as detailed by medical documentation. I expect you to study all these materials before zero hour this evening. By doing so, you will stand the best chance of succeeding. Understand?" I have to admit I blink first after that tsunami of verbal diarrhoea washes me and everything before it away.

"Where did you get all this intelligence? There isn't a computer terminal or electronic device in this entire room." I say checking the room to make sure I haven't missed a trick.

"All this information was revealed during our initial investigation on Halsee and Pedro's connection to him and Daytona. I committed the majority of that information to memory before organising it into useable intelligence. Due to the fact all data is drawn from memory, I can only assure the intelligence is 90% accurate. You may wish to cross-reference it using the computer in the cave before departing. I will…remain here until the conclusion of the operation…to keep Alfred sated. Please do not make me regret this decision." He answers before handing me the papers. I take them without any trouble. We lock eyes again. He thinks I'm afraid of responsibility, that I don't want to take the heat. I live in Hell itself and he thinks I can't handle a little heat? I smile at him.

"You regret every decision with me, whether I save the day or not. You regretted making me Robin and there's no need to change your default setting now, big guy. Even if I get every shred of information you want out of Harrison and we stick Pedro away for life in a maximum security prison tonight, you'll regret sending me out there. You always have. You can deny it all you like but I know you for who and what you are. I'll get what you want, but don't expect me to stand here after it's over and let you tear me apart. I'm done playing for an A grade from you. Later." I leave without looking back. Bruce doesn't try to stop me either. He lets me walk out the room and down the stairs before even bothering to close his door. Whatever.

"Are you alright, young man?" Al asks me when I'm suiting up in the cave eight hours later. Even after all the shit I've taken from the big man and despite my skin being thicker than the cave walls, what he said about me still hurt. I shrug it off while grabbing three smoke grenades and a handful of collapsible batarangs from the armoury to stuff in my utility belt. I nod at him.

"Why wouldn't I be? You're the man of my dreams on a mission like this, Al. I'm in vigilante heaven right now." I say with a smile I really hope puts him at ease. When he smiles, I've know I've managed to suck the tension out the room and bring the atmosphere back.

"You and I have very different views on what constitutes 'heaven', Master Jason. I shall monitor you via video feed and audio link as well as GPS tracking from the command centre. I have alerted Commissioner Gordon to our operation and he has permitted a one-hour window to obtain the information we desire before GCPD officers arrive at the pier. That hour began five minutes ago. Please get there as fast as possible." He informs me as I'm already mounting my bike, donning my mask and turning it in the direction of the exit ramp. I wink at him.

"Just watch the dot, Al. It's about to move really, really damn fast. Try to keep up."

Ten seconds later, I'm lost to the night.

It's game time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Jason goes all out for proof of Pedro's status as the real boss behind the arms trafficking. It doesn't go exactly as planned.**

**Descent 5**

"Penny-one, this is Robin. You hearing me okay?"

"_This is Penny-one, hearing you loud and clear. I take you're at Pier 33 now?"_

"That's affirmative. How long I have I got before the GCPD break up the party?"

"_Thirty-nine minutes. Do you have visual contact with Harrison yet?"_

I whip out my infrared binoculars and scan the dock from my vantage point on a shipping container just behind the pier's perimeter fence. At near enough forty feet above the ground, I spot about twenty heavies and a slack handful of snipers posted on the warehouse roof, but no sign of Harrison. I sigh.

"Negative on that. He must be inside the warehouse. The big guy mentioned a partitioned office area would be inside the warehouse. He's probably there."

"_Are they unloading the merchandise?"_

"No. The ship's not due to dock for another three hours. It looks like they're not in danger of running out of product anytime soon though. They look to have at least one hundred thousand weapons judging by the packing crates I can see." I relay back to the old man whilst shifting along the top of the container to get a better view of the situation. The heavies guarding the shop floor are sporting full body armour and face protection as well as carrying semi-automatic rifles, all of which look of soviet origin. The snipers also have a soviet-era weaponry, probably Dragunov by the thin barrel profile and general detailing of the rifle. "The guard force is packing some serious hardware as well, all soviet made and all very solid, and reliable weapon systems. Fortunately the sniper guards are looking in every direction but mine. They seem to be expecting trouble from the docking ship and the surrounding area, but not the shipping yard." I add after a long pause between reports.

"_Unsurprising since that particular yard is both condemned and inaccessible from road or sea without being seen miles away. It seems you chose wisely for your reconnaissance work."_

"The reconnaissance needs to be done now if I'm to get my hands on Harrison before Jim arrives."

"_Then it's done, Sir. Please proceed to the interior of the warehouse."_

"On route." I say before slipping over the fence and dropping into the dockyard below. I manage to get past the first wave of goons with some seriously risky openings in their patrol patterns before diving into the cover of a truck's shadow. After crawling under the truck's axle, I can see the front of the warehouse and just about make out the sniper positions above it. If I had back-up, three snipers would be no problem, but I don't so I have to be very quick in taking them down. I leave the underside of the truck, sprint to the dark side of the warehouse and then clamber up the side. I'm now directly underneath one sniper's feet but I can't throw him over the side if I want to end tonight outside of a wooden jacket.

I painstakingly shimmy along the edge of the roof until I'm almost a metre past the sniper's position. I toss a pebble from my belt over his shoulder and hear it clatter behind him. When he turns to check out the noise, I spring up, get behind him and then chloroform the hell out of him with a pre-soaked rag from another pouch. He goes lights-out and I strip down his rifle and remove the firing pin before moving swiftly on. I repeat the same distraction trick on the second sniper before just deciding to lamp the last one with the full width of foot across his face. Once they're all down, I restrain and gag them to prevent raising the alarm on me. All firing pins have been bent under foot and I'm in position for dropping into the warehouse. Because there's no ladders on the side of the building, the snipers had to have got roof access by some kind of hatch or skylight. I turn around and find the hatch I'm looking for.

"How long have I got?" I ask heaving the hatch open.

"_Twenty-eight minutes."_

"I'm entering the warehouse now. Once I've got Harrison to sing, I'll need a really quick and dirty escape route from the dock. Square me one away and I'll love you forever." I tell Al whilst peering down into the warehouse. The coast is clear.

"_How can I resist an offer like that? Leave it me."_

With that assurance, I drop through the hatch and land on a mental gantry a couple of feet below. It's being manned from both sides, meaning I'm caught in the middle with some very big and very ugly henchman on some serious gear. Chloroform to the rescue! I creep up behind the one closest to me and dose him with the rag whilst praying he doesn't have the flexibility to turn around and clock me before it can take effect. Thankfully he has a midsection made of breezeblock so turning quickly is impossible without his legs. Once he's out, I repeat the routine on the other guy. Their pistols are still holstered, but I take the firing pins out anyway. I've had too many close calls and enough slugs pulled out of my body not to know I'm better off if they can't just pull the trigger on me. I look down into the warehouse. There's at least ten guys milling around with just as much protection and firepower as outside. I spot the office area and see four have congregated right in front of the door.

"Is there another way into the office on the big man's schematic?" I say, flirting with the idea of picking the muscle off one by one to get to Harrison.

"_There is access from underneath, however, you don't have enough time to get the required access point before the GCPD arrive on scene."_

"How long do I have?"

"_Twenty minutes."_

"How many guys have you counted so far?"

"_Excluding the five you have disabled, I have a body count of thirty-one, including Harrison if we assume he is in the office."_

"There's too big a heat concentration at the door to get a proper check on how many signatures there are. He might be in there, but he might not be too."

"_Then you must make a choice before it is too late to act in the interest of either option."_

Stealth will take too long. I can't go back out to the roof without wasting more time I don't have. We need the information off Harrison to ensure Pedro's role as boss is outed to the world. I have to go big or go home. I have to roll the dice and fight my way through them. It's the only way I'll take Harrison alive at this point.

"Don't panic." I tell Al whilst taking two CS grenades from my back pouches, "I got this."

"_The odds of you managing to incapacitate all of them before one can land a successful hit with a weapon is…"_

"Unimportant. You don't play the odds. You always play the dealers. If I snuff it, make sure the big man knows it's all his fault." I say launching the grenades to opposite corners of the room. They blanket the space below in a thick cloud of white fog within seconds. As the gunfire begins to erupt around the warehouse, I take a deep breath and then dive into the mayhem below. Reinforcements will be here in a few moments, meaning I have no time to lose.

My respirator's on and three goons are relieved of their weapons within a minute. It takes less than another two minutes for the floor to fill up with bodies and then less than thirty seconds for them to close down space and box me into a grid that measures less than two square metres. With the CS starting to disperse and their protective headwear also seeming to act a gas filter, I have to get brutal. Grabbing a discarded rifle off the floor and praying that their armour can withstand the round calibre, I start squeezing the trigger. Even though moments like this are rare, I'm a marksman across five different weapon categories and always keep my skills sharp at the range. This means I hit every single one of them with a single round to the chest and because of the lack of distance between us, the force knocks them on their asses. Ten are down in the aftermath, but when I barely dodge a bullet from behind intended for my skull, I know I'm still under the cosh.

I hightail it through the warehouse, dodging and ducking a hailstorm of bullets along the way until I can dive behind a thick stack of crates. By my count, there's still at least ten rounds in my rifle. I need to take their firearms away from them to stand a chance in combat. I make a decision to go for their trigger finger hand, wait for a lull in proceedings and then pop up pick off three of them in quick succession. After an interim of more bullets, I spring up again and take a couple more pot shots. If I've got my maths right, that leaves me with sixteen able-bodied opponents to surmount. I launch two of my smoke grenades and then wade into the cloud. Knowing I need more heft to my shots because of their padding, I use the butt of my rifle and drive it into their stomachs to bring them forward before powering it up to catch their exposed chins. By doing this, I take down another three and make sure the five I clipped in the hand are still unable to continue by a stomp to the affected hand or toe-punt into the underside of the groin where the protection ends.

As the smoke clears, I'm down to thirteen. In the chaos I've created I can't be sure if Harrison has slipped out or not, but am banking on him staying put. I retreat to the dark only to count twenty-three guys instead of thirteen. It looks like their body armour is thicker than I thought. Either that or they're doped up to their eyeballs on adrenaline to numb the pain. No matter how you look at this, things have escalated beyond my control.

"_You have to extract. Gordon's men will arrive in less than ten minutes."_

"Let me breathe." I tell him whilst watching the thugs begin to sweep for me. "I can do this."

I point my rifle to the ceiling and exhaust my remaining ammo to shoot out the lights and flood the room with darkness. I then lob a strobe light from the pouch where my first-aid kit should be to make the warehouse look like a silent rave is taking place. Since the batteries on the strobe will only last a matter of minutes because of its small size, I charge into the fray with knuckle dusters on both hands and get to work. I find the gaps in the armour soon enough, targeting under the armpits to attack the ribs and the underside of the groin and backs of the knees to bring them down to earth. With the knuckle dusters it only takes two solid hits to make sure they stay down. I take a butt or two to the face, but because I'm still wearing my respirator, the damage is minor. Same detail applies for my ribs and Kevlar tunic. Rounds are sprayed off periodically, but none of them are in my general direction. By the time the strobe dies, the only one I can still hear breathing is me. Everything else is quiet.

I'm breathing really hard, like a lot harder than I thought I would be. It turns out taking down thirty-odd guys like this really is a lung burner. My ribs don't appreciate it much either. No part of my body is happy at the minute. But it's holding together okay and still not an excuse to stop. I need Harrison to talk.

"How…long?" I manage to say between huge breaths. I can hear the faint wail of sirens begin to drown out the background noise. Al sighs over the radio.

"_Less than three minutes."_

"Okay…I got this." I say whilst heading for the office door. It's already ajar and I'm guessing Harrison is barricaded behind his desk with a pistol pointed at the doorway, ready to blow my head off. I toss a flash bang through the crack in the door and wait. A bang accompanied by a girlish scream of surprise, tells me I'm on the money with my prediction. I barge through the door, knock the gun out of Harrison's fat hand and then crush his left kneecap with a vicious stomp to the side of the bone. He screams as loud as any man I've ever heard, but I shut him right up by grabbing the discarded pistol and pressing it to his temple. I pray he doesn't call my bluff on this.

"Let's have a confession. Frank Halsee isn't your boss, is he? Danny Pedro is your boss. Pedro's always been in charge down here. Isn't that so?" When Harrison doesn't muster a verbal reply, I pull back the hammer to show I'm serious. "Either admit it or I'll splatter your brains all over the wall there. You've got five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One…"

"Yeah, he's my boss. So what?" Harrison finally says. He's suddenly very cool. I don't like it. I'm pissed off, tired and time is still ticking away. So I try to press him with what I bothered to read in the intelligence report. I adopt a dark smile and throw the pistol so I'm not tempted.

"I want to take him down. I want you to help me or else Jim Gordon is going to make sure you go straight back to Blackgate's general population. You remember last time, right? How much fun you had with the sisters?" I know he was raped in Blackgate. Bruce called it 'grievous sexual assault' in the report, but I know he was raped. And because I know what that feels like, I know he doesn't want it to happen again. In his shape, he wouldn't last long. His eyes widen.

"You wouldn't dare…" He begins before I slap him to stop the bullshit. I'm getting desperate now. Just talk, you fat fuck. Just talk…

"Less denials, more evidence. Give me proof Danny Pedro is the real boss right this second or I give Gordon the green light to feed your fat ass to your favourite fairies." When he fails to respond in the single second window I graciously gave him, I dig my heel into his already shattered knee to get a high-pitched scream, but not the evidence I need.

"_Sir, the GCPD has arrived at the warehouse, they should be with you momentarily. I suggest you wrap up proceedings."_ Al hints to basically say I should leave now. I sigh and close my eyes as the inevitability of failure begins to loom large. I step off his knee.

"Got my exit?"

"_There's a rear door you can force that should lead back to your bike location by heading forward through the fencing. It is approximately four hundred metres North-West from your current position."_

"Got it." I turn to Harrison, who's managed to stop screaming like a girl, and nod. "Fine. Enjoy being fucked every night, you dumbass." I spit on him to make myself feel better and then begin to head for the escape route. Something on the floor catches my attention. I pick up a brown folder and leaf through it. In the bad lighting it's hard to tell what it says, but it's worth a shot at this point. Anything is now. I should stay for Jim, but I'm too mad to talk right now. So I leave.

That was bad…


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Back to Bruce's POV following Jason's unsuccessful intelligence-gathering operation on Gotham Docks. Jason is not in the mood for lectures. After the meeting, the POV switches to Alfred as he shares some quality time with the youth. Alcohol is involved. Enjoy.**

**Descent 6**

**Bruce**

I have called the boy into my father's study after his return from the docks. Alfred has informed me that Jason was unsuccessful in his efforts to lean on Harrison for proof of Pedro's identity as their boss. Although he managed to incapacitate over thirty individuals in spite of the firearm risks presented and get to Harrison before Jim and the GCPD arrived, he did not have enough time to interrogate him effectively. I have been led to understand he is furious with himself and in no mood for a lecture of any sort. I do not intend to antagonise him further by listing all his improper conduct during the operation. His use of a semi-automatic weapon as a form of crowd control was far too dangerous given he did not know the type of armour his opponents were using, but admonishing him would only sour the situation further. My concussion is dissipating with every hour, however I will not cross the old man by prematurely returning to duty. Therefore I need Jason on side. I must be neutral. A little after eleven-thirty, the boy enters the study without knocking.

He is dressed in nothing but a grey pair of cotton shorts, showing me old and fresh bruises, cuts and what look like cartridge burns on his neck in varying states of treatment. The cut on his forehead from earlier in the week has opened again whilst the jagged pattern to his split lip suggests taking a blunt implement to the face whilst wearing his respirator. From what I can tell, he took a number of hard shots to the face, but has survived reasonably well. When he slams the door shut and slumps back in the seat before my father's desk, I bite my tongue at his serial lack of respect for the traditions and history of this household. He glares at me as blood begins to seep out of his forehead cut. I open the desk drawer and produce a Band-Aid from the first-aid case inside. I hold it out for him.

"Your forehead is bleeding." I inform him. He responds by running a forearm across the wound and then licking the blood off his arm like some kind of wild animal, keeping his eyes fixed on mine the whole time. I put the Band-Aid on the desktop and try to open a dialogue again. "How close were you to securing the evidence?"

"If he'd stopped screaming like a fucking girl, I could've already had it by now. All I got was a file about shipping regulations before good ol' Jim and the boys turned up for the sting." He snaps, more at himself than me. His frustration is threatening to turn into violent outrage if I do nothing to quell it soon. Fortunately I have prepared something precisely for this scenario. I reach down into the bottom drawer and produce two glasses, a bottle of Caribbean rum and a bottle of coke before setting them on the desktop. The boy's fondness for rum and coke has not escaped my notice over the years, nor has his propensity to wreak havoc when graduating to concentrated spirits. Jason's eyes flicker at the appearance of alcohol but nothing more. "Is this your latest ploy to bring me back into the fold, Bruce? You're going to ply me with drink like I'm a club whore or the town's bicycle?" He says derisively. I begin to pour rum in both glasses.

"I hold no expectations of you doing anything I wish. I just feel you would not be so hard on yourself if there were some kind of reward for your efforts beyond words." I explain truthfully as the coke is generously added to both glasses. The boy's bitter expression softens slightly. He rolls his eyes.

"Please can I have the Band-Aid now?"

I hand it to him along with one of the glasses. I am inwardly relieved when he takes both. He covers the cut and then tests my mixture. He is quiet for several moments after swallowing. I await his verdict. He shrugs. "Not bad."

"I would like to look at the file you recovered. Perhaps there is some clue inside its pages we can exploit. How are you feeling?" I ask after we have been mired in silence for three of four sips of our drinks. Jason shrugs again before taking another sip. His drink is almost empty already.

"I'm glad I didn't have any medication before I came in here. Chances are I'd be convulsing on the floor by now." He responds, draining his glass afterwards. "I feel like shit, in response to your concern."

"I see. Perhaps you should go to bed."

"Says the man drinking with a head injury? Do you listen to anything Al says?" Jason retorts with more than a valid point. I push my drink to one side and nod.

"Yes, I see your point."

"Yeah, well, if you'll excuse me…" The boy says whilst reaching forward and snatching the rum bottle off the desk, "I'm going to go and 'convalesce' in my room. Don't try and get me up before my hangover passes or things will go even worse for you." He warns before getting to his feet and preparing to leave. "I'll get you the file tomorrow. Night."

Considering his mood only ten minutes earlier, this meeting could have developed into something a great deal more troubling than it has. Jason needs time to himself, I understand that after what stresses he has been subjected to in the last week. If he wishes to drink a little more alcohol, he may as long as it does not become a crutch. There is a knock on the door some fifteen minutes later.

"Enter."

I watch as Alfred walks in, spots the half-full glass on the desk and adopts a stern countenance I recall all too well from my youth. "Your attempts to curry favour with that boy are not compatible with your doctor's orders." He tells me taking hold of the glass and briefly scanning the room. "He has appropriated your rum I take it?"

"Will you please ensure he does not indulge himself too much tonight? I need him sharp for the day after tomorrow. There is an avenue of this investigation against Pedro that has yet to be fully explored."

"Certainly Sir. I shall also keep you abreast of Commissioner Gordon's efforts in derailing tonight's arms shipment. Will that be all, Sir?"

"No." I say grabbing the coke bottle, "Take that with you and make sure he uses some of it to stem the carnage." The old man smiles at me. I manage to give him one in reply. He relieves me of the bottle and inclines his head: he knows far better how to control wayward youths than I ever could. I trusted him to get Jason on side and he did just that. This operation tonight was not a failure. The boy's full participation meant it was a success. Alfred's intervention made it a success. I am hoping for a similar result with the next mission.

"Very good. Goodnight, Master Bruce. Please get some rest."

**Alfred**

I arrive at the lad's bedroom door shortly after midnight, having given him roughly half-an-hour to get nicely settled. I knock on the door and am told to come in by a voice that is beginning to slur. When I open the door, I find the boy sprawled on his bed with a barely half-full bottle of rum tucked into the crook of his arm. It appears he has dispensed with the need for a glass altogether. He waves at me.

"Hey Al. What's the word on Jim?"

"He and his men are in position and merely awaiting the ship's arrival in just under an hour." I inform him whilst circling the bed and sitting on the edge. I retrieve his glass from the floor and present both it and the bottle of coke. "Perhaps it is time for a little moderation? I don't want the pleasure of scraping your vomit from the carpet pile again." He smirks in a way that tells me he will take my advice. He takes both articles off me, meaning I have to save the rum bottle from spilling when his arm no longer supports it.

"You always make a compelling argument, Al. Will you join me for one or two?" He replies, having seemingly not noticed he almost spilt rum all over the duvet. I smile and nod.

"As long as we stick to sensible measurements, I would be glad to spend some time in the company of a drunken teenager."

"Well, you're here, Al, so I doubt improper conduct with alcohol will be much of a problem." The boy laughs whilst pouring slightly more than a fifty centilitre helping of rum in my glass. He begins to pour himself the same. I stop him before he has one-and-a-half shots worth, somewhere around the thirty-five centilitre mark. His eyes, slightly glazed now, look at me in approval. "My hero." He just about manages to steady the coke bottle when filling the glass the rest of the way up. To prevent any accidents, I pour the coke into his glass on his behalf. We clink glasses.

A couple of drinks somehow turns into five, by which point I am suitably tipsy and the lad has his head in my lap. I have managed to decrease his alcohol intake with each additional drink by increasing mine and subtly pouring some of the bottle's contents onto the floor, although not all spillages have been deliberate. The rum bottle is mercifully empty now and signals the end of our revelry as the boy grows sleepy and contented with the night bleeding away. Despite his drowsiness, he is still talking in a comprehensible language. I have entertained him with stories from my time in the theatre and British Army whilst he has been describing the more pleasant moments of his childhood in the Narrows. He is currently regaling me with his proudest moment of grade-school education, a third-grade history report on Gotham Cathedral, for which he was given five gold stars on the merit board, entitling him to a candy bar of his choice.

"I chose a Herschel's, which is a Narrows market rip-off of a Hershey's. My mom used to buy me one as a treat when I was good for a week. I think I only ever earned like four of them in my whole life. I could never be good for a week." He explains snuggling down further in my tailcoat, which I threw over him shortly after our third drink. I comb through his hair and he closes his eyes for what I hope will be the final time tonight.

"I'm sure that's not entirely true. She probably didn't have the money to treat you every week."

"Lousy parent, huh?" He mutters, prompting me to retract my remark.

"I'm sorry, I think I may have phrased it incorrectly."

"No, she was a lousy parent. They both were. Even in a neighbourhood as poor as I grew up in, my family was the one struggling to pay rent. My old man couldn't get honest work and my mom's cancer just…buried us. My childhood was lousy. I hated being my old man's son. Nobody liked hanging around with me." He tells me with a sigh. "Sorry about boring you to tears, Al. Nobody likes to hear a billionaire's ward bitch about having a hard life." Even drunk and in the safety of my company, the boy's walls only come down for moments before going back up and fortifying themselves even more. It is sad he still feels guarded.

"I do remember you haven't always been with us, Jason. I do understand things for you have been very different than they have for us. If you won't talk to therapists about these kind of issues, you may always talk to me."

"No, I can't." He says getting up and opening his eyes to look at me. He shakes his head. "Not even with you, Al. I love you more than I've probably loved anyone ever, but I can't tell you the things I keep inside. No-one can ever know." He adds with an air of finality I cannot breach. We have had this kind of conversation before. He has been to therapy before, if only once. No matter what forum or freedoms he is given to express himself with, he does not get into his thoughts and feelings on his darkest issues. He never has. He probably never will. And as much as I want to help him quash these insecurities and banish these demons of his, I know I cannot force him into letting me. I excuse myself.

"In that case, lad, I bid you goodnight. I must go check on the GCPD's progress at the docks. Please excuse me." I say reaching for my tailcoat only for the boy to refuse to part with it.

"Can I keep this for tonight, Al? I think my dreams might be better with a part of you hanging around me." He says already retreating under the covers with my coat still wrapped around his shoulders. I allow him such a trivial thing and nod.

"Certainly." I stand up, adjust his covers and then kiss him on the forehead, due in some small part to my inebriation. "I will wake you sometime in the afternoon, if I am not nursing a hangover of my own."

"Lightweight." The boy murmurs before turning away from me. He begins to snore only moments later and I vacate the room after turning out the lights and collecting the empty bottles and glassware. After managing the stairs down to the cave, I check the commissioner's progress at the ducks…I mean the docks of course. From the GPS tracking and breaking story reports flooding in on the internet, I can assume they have successfully halted the arms trafficking out of that particular pier and dealt a telling blow to the entire criminal operation in the process. I consider trying to negotiate the stairs back to the house for some time. If anything, my vision has blurred further in the past twenty minutes and my legs can no longer be trusted to coordinate themselves in an appropriate manner befitting a butler of this house. I therefore grab a blanket from the medical bay, recline back in the command centre's chair and let myself drift off until the morning. Master Bruce will just have to wait for his breakfast.

Yes, the miserable sod will just have to wait…


End file.
